True Love
by SCWLC
Summary: Connor's got a history of helping people, but sometimes the helper needs help.
1. Connor

Title: True Love  
Author: SCWLC  
Disclaimer: I own nothing that anyone recognises.  
Summary: Connor's got a history of helping people, but sometimes the helper needs help  
Pairing: Stephen/Connor  
Rating: NC-17 maybe R, but I'll go to the max for safety's sake. I do sometimes tend to blurry watercolours than explicit scenes, though.  
Series: Two. Kinda has to be, all things considered.  
A/N: So . . . Connor PoV, and I'm making up an angsty backstory for Connor that probably bears little to no relation to anything that has appeared on any official site or bio for him. However, since I haven't read any of those, I am cheerfully claiming ignorance and stating that I'm taking the view that it's only really canon if they say it on the show. Naturally, I am following this up by slashing Connor and Stephen, but . . . well, that's the point of fanfic, isn't it? Also, for the record, if anyone reading this wants to brit-pick in the comments, feel free.

* * *

Connor knew that most people thought he was probably a virgin. He couldn't blame them. He was awkward and silly and socially stunted in a lot of ways. It was something that came with the territory of being smarter than all the other kids you knew without having athleticism or something else they respected to defray the problems created by being that smart. It meant that adults thought you were maturer than you were, just because you were smart enough to see longer term than the other kids, rather than actually having some sort of real understanding of life and people. It put you into a sort of strange void, where you were too adult for the other kids, but too childish for the adults and brought on stages of adolescence to soon, but keeping you from all the maturation that would come with actually dating and spending time with your peers.

No wonder all the smart kids were weird.

He wasn't a virgin though. It just hadn't come about in any sort of normal way. Not really.

One of his closest friends growing up had turned out gay. Connor had hardly cared, he'd figured out around the same time for himself that he went both ways, so the revelation hadn't bothered him. But in a conservative small town, a boy who didn't like girls at all like that was put through a lot of trouble. Ned had first been bullied when he'd taken the advice of too much American TV and just come out to everyone. Then he'd been shunned. By the time he was sixteen, Ned had been knocking back anything with alcohol in it just to keep from thinking too hard about things and how awful everything was.

Connor couldn't stand to lose his best friend that way, so he'd stepped in, quietly, and one night had just started kissing Ned when the other boy was too drunk to think about things. He'd made himself into Ned's boyfriend, made himself into a support and a steadying influence and got him into a college in London, giving up on Cambridge and a Canadian university near to Drumheller, Alberta where they had some of the best paleontologists in the world teaching and easy access to the dinosaur-rich badlands to go to university in London as well. He'd let himself fall in love with Ned, which was why he'd been so destroyed when Ned had left him for someone else just a few weeks after.

"You've been wonderful, Conn," he'd said. "But I really love Josh, and you shouldn't give up everything for me. I know you've just been doing this to help me, but I need to do this without you as a crutch."

The fact that Ned didn't seem to realise Connor really had fallen in love with him had been about all that kept Connor from a screaming fit.

Crystal, in the co-ed residence he moved to in second year had been suicidal. He'd come across her, and had forced his way into her life to keep her from doing something everyone around her would regret. Sex had been the one therapy he could use to reassure her that someone would care and notice if she died, and he'd been there for her whenever she needed it. This time he'd kept himself from falling in love, which was a good thing, because he was good enough at doing this that she'd up and scarpered off with some car mechanic she met. She was doing well, living in Liverpool with him, married with two children and a steady home life.

It was just something he did a lot, he found. It was like he had a sort of wounded hearts radar that kept getting him into these situations where he'd wind up just sort of falling into bed with someone to walk them back out of depression.

Still, it was a little depressing that not one of the people, Ned, Crystal, Iris, Vick, Shaun and Shawna, none of them seemed to want him back. His awkwardness in social situations kept people from really even seeing how he got about with boys and girls and the clinically depressed who he could never seem to talk into going to therapy.

When the ARC came into being and Connor found himself working with competent and strong people who never seemed to have any issues, it almost came as a relief. He might never have sex again, but that felt like a small price to pay for never having to be faced with another person to play helpmeet cum boyfriend to.

For the first time in a long time, he just let himself crush on strong, occasionally terrifying Abby and strong, cool, confident Stephen. It was equal opportunity for dreaming, and he let himself hope that the part of his life where he let someone use him for comfort before moving on to better pastures was over. Even if he never landed either of them, and how could he expect that, nerd that he was? Even if he didn't land them, surely this new milieu would afford him a chance to find someone who wanted Connor, not just comfort in the form of sex.

It was with a sinking sense of familiarity that he showed up at Stephen's flat. The other man had called him, drunk, and Connor had heard something in his voice that rang as familiar and Ned and Crystal and a bottle of pills.

He was barely through the door and seated on an armchair when Stephen began to talk as he toyed with the tequila bottle. "It just happened, you know? She lied about everything and I just . . . couldn't . . ."

Maybe he could still talk Stephen down. "At a guess, you're talking about Professor Cutter's wife," Connor said, wanting to be sure what was going on before he tried anything, particularly getting the bottle away from Stephen before the other man got alcohol poisoning.

"Yes. Helen." Stephen looked up, glassy-eyed but with something that left Connor sick with its familiarity. "I thought I was in love with her. Hell, I thought she loved me but cared too much about Nick to make a clean break." The swallow he took was rather impressive actually, visibly decimating the amount in the bottle of cheap liquor. "Then she's back with all the coy looks and kissing me in the university and . . ." he trailed off.

A deep breath. "You need to step back from her, Stephen," Connor tried. It wasn't going to work, it hadn't worked when Iris had insisted her abusive boyfriend really loved her. There was a sort of self-defensive denial that there was anything wrong with being hit and belittled, used and broken. Connor owed most of his success at not dying from prehistoric creatures to learning how not to be killed by an infuriated and strung out bastard who wanted to kill the pissant shagging his ex. He still had a few scars from that. Still, you had to try that route first, and clearly Helen Cutter was no good for Stephen if she was making him try to find the worm at the bottom of the bottle.

Glancing around the room, Connor winced. Make that find the worms at the bottoms of a few bottles.

"Just don't play her games, Stephen. If she left without even caring about either of you, she can't be what you thought she was." Connor edged closer, aiming to get the bottle away as soon as Stephen let it go enough.

Stephen snorted. "Well, she's not, at that. But then, I'm not such a prize either, am I? Sleeping with the wife of one of the best friends I've ever had." He was sitting on the sofa, but with those words he suddenly shifted, sprawling out, one foot on the floor, the other outstretched down the length of the furniture, leaning against an arm, and with his back to Connor.

This wouldn't work if he couldn't see Stephen properly, so Connor went and plopped onto the sofa, deliberately taking a relaxed but still a little prim sort of seat there. Nothing threatening, nothing that would make it look like he wasn't listening. He'd made that mistake with Shaun, and had nearly lost him to his self-loathing. Shaun hadn't wanted to die, precisely, he'd just thought everyone else would be better off without him.

By then, Connor had managed to practically cordon off his heart from what Tom had once called his 'sex therapy', and it hadn't hurt to cut Shaun loose once he stopped hating himself.

That hadn't meant he hadn't buried himself for the next year in nothing but Star Wars and conspiracy theories with Tom and Duncan. They were equally as socially inept as he was, though Duncan had never been all that perceptive in general. It was Tom who'd kept Connor from sinking into depression himself, offering a pure and uncomplicated friendship that let Connor unload and was straighter than the flight of an iron filing into an anomaly. There was never and never could be a romance there, and they'd provided a steady influence of something real in his life for years.

Ruthlessly he quashed the guilt of how he'd repaid Tom for keeping him sane.

Right now, Stephen looked like Shaun had, when he'd explained his theory of the economic and social drain of the subpar musician on family and friends.

"And you fell for her telling you that she was in love with you," Connor pointed out. "You were convinced she was something other than what she was, and it's not the same as setting out to steal Cutter's wife."

"It takes two to tango," Stephen pointed out bitterly, taking another swig.

Connor nodded. "Yes," he said, pointedly. "It does. Helen did as much, if not more, than you did."

"Cheers," Stephen said with a blinding grin that was a mockery of the flirtatious one he turned on women to talk them around. "So, I'm not only worthless, I'm stupid too."

"You were a gullible undergrad," Connor snapped. "A lot of people have been there."

The smile that was like shattered glass eased into something softer. "You know why I called you, Connor?" Stephen asked.

He couldn't help but feel a little bitter. It was the same question Shawna had asked when she'd called him for a, "Straight boy's opinion of my figure." He hadn't enlightened her about being bi, because it wouldn't have been useful, but she'd said just what Stephen was saying now.

"You're just . . . nice. And honest. And I know I can trust you because you're just . . . dependable."

She'd made doe eyes at him, and he'd walked her through eating a bloody apple before she passed out from low blood sugar, caused by her tendencies to anorexia. Shawna he'd gotten into therapy eventually, but not before spending months feeling bulimic because of all the times her sometimes skeletal self had made him feel sick with horror about it all.

Was there something about being dependable that made him attractive to people with issues?

Just once he'd like someone to lean on for himself.

But this wasn't about him. "Stephen," he got up and moved to where Stephen was leaned against the arm of the couch. It was a practiced gesture by now, hand on the shoulder, look them in the eyes. "Listen. I know you're all about honesty, that's why this is hitting you so hard. Helen lied and convinced you to lie, whether by omission or out and out, she did. It's why hiding the anomalies is so tough on you, and I get it's coming to a head." He got a hand on the bottle and eased it away. "But drinking yourself into a stupor isn't going to help."

Stephen blinked, slowly. "You know what I miss?" he asked.

"What?" Connor asked. He was taken rather by surprise then, when Stephen leaned forward and kissed him. He'd never pegged Stephen as bi, and it was a bit of a shock. He'd figured Stephen would be that pipe dream of a crush on someone who literally couldn't return his affections. He'd thought this would end up like with Vick, who he'd played gay admirer for, been half in love with anyhow, until he'd really started to make Vick uncomfortable. They hadn't spoken since that day, and Connor had marked that as the last time he was going to let someone crush his heart like that.

He'd figured on this being a prop-up-the-ego thing, with him playing admirer in the background until Stephen stopped feeling like he was valueless.

But long, clever fingers were threading into his hair, and Connor pressed forward, because he honestly missed the affection. Something in his overstrained and overtrained heart made him let go and let Stephen pull him forward and let himself moan and start looking for the right place to put a love bite on Stephen's neck by feeling for it with his lips and tongue.

Stephen was stronger than him, and soon he was pulled up onto the couch, straddling the other man's lap as they pressed together, both of them hard from the sight, sound and touch of the other. Easily settling into the familiar role of secondary player, the one who gives just what his partner needs, he let himself be led to the bed. Like lovers instead of a couple boys after a quickie shag.

He shoved away the pang he always felt about the idea of a lover who took care of him. It made him useful, didn't it? Sometimes his da's words questioning how useful a degree in paleontology could be would sting in unexpected moments.

They tumbled to the bed, and Connor set himself to the way he always played it, getting Stephen out of his clothes, pressing kisses down the other man's chest, even as he cupped the lovely bulge in the front of Stephen's trousers. A hoarse cry erupted from Stephen's lips, and Connor's name. He pulled Connor into a fervent open-mouthed kiss, which left Connor wanting so badly. It was instinct not art that made him let go of Stephen's cock and desperately grind himself against the other. He hadn't been this hard since . . . ever. He couldn't even think of anything but pressing harder and closer, and it was Stephen who slowed them, pushing Connor away long enough to get them both out of their trousers, and rolling Connor under him to press down and drive Connor mad with the slick and slippery feel of their erections pressed together between them.

There wasn't coherent thought enough to consider getting out a condom for some proper sex, they were both too far gone now, and Connor only barely had the presence of mind to roll them both again (it was a lovely big bed Stephen had), and get a hand around both of them, pumping both hardened cocks as he and Stephen bucked their hips together, eyes locked on each other.

He was so frantic and mad with the desire that had simply ripped away any sense from him, that the orgasm took him by surprise in its way. One moment he's frantically moving against Stephen, unable to do anything but buck faster and kiss harder, the next the world's gone in an explosion of white and ecstasy.

They both came back down, sinking into a satiated tangle of limbs, and Connor fell asleep, draped around Stephen.

Sometime in the night, their positions shifted, and Connor woke up, curled up next to his friend and colleague, Stephen's arms loosely wrapped around him, his head on Stephen's chest, and the full realisation of what had just happened made him cringe. With the ease of long practice, Connor slipped out of bed, had a fast shower, and settled in to wait in a chair in the corner, wearing nothing but his boxers and vest.

He couldn't abandon Stephen, not unless and until he knew that vanishing wouldn't cause trouble. He couldn't stay either, because Stephen wouldn't want him. Not after this. Stephen wasn't in as bad a way as the others, he'd be over his bad evening quickly and wouldn't want a lovesick techie hanging around. So, Connor had to strike a balance of not threatening to be too clingy, but not dumping Stephen in disgust or taking the appearance of taking advantage of him. Connor just barely schooled his face in time as Stephen woke up and saw him.

"Can I get you some water? That was a hell of a lot of tequila you had last night," Connor said, cautiously offering Stephen any number of outs.

"Thanks," Stephen rasped, looking like he was trying to figure out what was happening. "The analgesics are in the lefthand cabinet in the bathroom."

Connor slipped out quickly, pausing to lean against the hall wall and take in a shaky breath as he looked for the self-control not to burst into tears. He'd sworn he wouldn't let this happen to him again, but something about Stephen had just waltzed right past his defenses. When he was sure he'd be able to pretend, he scurried back into the bedroom, to where Stephen was seated on the edge of the bed, looking like he was contemplating whether death was better than the hangover.

They moved awkwardly through the morning, Connor cautiously keeping Stephen from saying something that might put an obligation on the older man, Stephen looking like he was still trying to understand what was going on.

For once, he was grateful that tech assistance was so invisible to most people as he made himself scarce in plain sight, hiding behind adjustments he thought might help the ADD that weren't really necessary but gave him an excuse not to look Stephen in the eye.

As the day wore on, though, Stephen seemed to have reached some point of inner equilibrium, and Connor felt a little better that, even if he'd broken his promise to himself to never fall for anyone he was, 'sexually healing', Tom's words, not his, at least he hadn't lost his touch with it. For two days, life seemed to settle into its usual groove, and Connor began carefully packing away his feelings for bright, funny, sharp, honest and stalwart Stephen in the same place he'd put the feelings for Vick and Crystal and Ned.

He was staying over late, finishing up reports, when Stephen was suddenly in the door to his office. "We need to talk," he said.

Connor felt his eyes go wide in panic. No! Stephen was supposed to move on now, not either drag Connor's feelings through the mud or feel obligation to him. He was also pretty sure he hadn't clamped down on his panic fast enough either. "Really? Why?"

"Does playing therapist and then a night of some of the best sex I've ever had not ring any bells?" he asked Connor dryly.

He tried to look understanding and worldly, and was pretty sure all he'd managed was a really weird facial expression if the look on Stephen's face was anything to go by. "It's fine. You needed a friend to talk to, and we both let things go further than we should. It's fine. I mean, it doesn't have to mean anything, we can just . . . let it go. It's fine."

Eyebrows raised in disbelief, Stephen said, "You do realise you just informed me that it's fine three times just now?" Before Connor could do more than wince at that observation, he continued. "Is it that common for you to play therapist, then sex therapist?"

"Common enough," Connor muttered before clapping a hand over his mouth. What was it about Stephen that made him ignore all his own rules?

"Connor?" The voice was gentle. Too gentle. If he let himself, he'd fall into the trap of thinking he'd found someone who'd want to play turnabout and take care of him, for once.

He bolted to his feet, voice getting higher in his distress as he said, "Just . . . it's not important, okay? You needed . . . I just . . . you have what you needed, right? So, we can pretend it didn't happen." He tried to get away, because this was Stephen, like it had been Ned, someone he cared deeply for and who was already rooted in his heart when he'd given up that bit of himself to make sure the other came through okay and he couldn't pretend if Stephen didn't let him.

"It is important, Connor," Stephen caught his arm, easily keeping him inside the office and shutting the door. "You made me see Helen more clearly than I ever have and . . ." he paused, swallowed looking nervous, and what would make Stephen nervous? "You made me see you as more than just a friend last night, Connor. You're more than just dependable, you're brilliant and sometimes even funny and I want to see where that night can take us."

Something inside Connor cracked. Stephen had to be lying. He had to be feeling guilt and not wanting to harm Connor or . . . something. It had to be, because no one ever really wanted Connor once they'd gotten what they needed. Not, silly, geeky, baggy-clothed, Connor. He'd made his peace with it, or so he'd thought. But this hurt. He couldn't make a clean break and deal with things if Stephen sat there being all noble. It would hurt all the more when it was over that he'd let himself believe it.

"Just stop!" Connor gasped around the lump in his throat. He wrenched himself away, taking refuge on the far side of the desk. "You don't have to feel any obligation, Stephen. I didn't do it for that. Please. Don't . . . don't make it into something else." As Stephen's mouth opened to respond to this, the words slipped out. "I can't do it again, Stephen. I can't let myself fall for someone who just needed someone to get them over a rough patch. It hurts when you leave and act like I didn't feel anything."

There was something in Stephen's eyes, his face, and expression that made Connor tremble, and he wasn't sure quite why. "You said it's common enough, Connor. What does that mean?" he asked. He was moving, stalking really, and Connor somehow couldn't get away. Couldn't avoid Stephen who was so much faster and stronger and more competent physically than Connor could ever be, and had him boxed in and gentle hands that were cupping his face and gently wiping away the tears with his thumbs.

And the something cracked inside Connor broke and a flood of words about Ned and Crystal and all the others poured out, and instead of letting him shatter, warm arms wrapped around him and held him together, being strong for him for once, and he spared a fleeting thought for Tom, who'd always promised him that someday someone would be there for him the way he'd been there for other people.

When those warm lips closed over his, Connor let himself just feel, let Stephen hold him and slip a hand down and pull him out of his spiral of memory with the sharp pleasure of a warm hand cupping his aching cock and letting him cling to something solid and warm and real as pleasure sang along his nerves. He let himself be dressed again and led like a child to the car, from the car to the flat with its stark white walls and comfortable plaid comforter on the bed that was so like Stephen, where they wound up skin to skin and body to body again.

This second time wasn't strategy and comfort and therapy, it was warmth and something that he dared wonder if it was love.

Most of all, though, it was waking up that next morning that was really bliss, because as he woke wrapped up in warm arms that asked nothing but that he be there, and a brilliant smile that lit up sharp blue eyes, it was like he'd finally had a real first time, because this was something real.

Fin.


	2. Stephen

Title: True Love (from the other side)  
Author: SCWLC  
Disclaimer: I own nothing that anyone recognises.  
Summary: Connor's got a history of helping people, but sometimes the helper needs help  
Pairing: Stephen/Connor  
Rating: NC-17  
Series: Two. Kinda has to be, all things considered.  
A/N: So, I do this sometimes. I've said it before, I'm very derivative of myself, and I like PoV work. So sometimes I just go back and rewrite my own stuff from the other perspective, just because I can. I'm just . . . I felt like writing and couldn't really decide on anything. So, this just kind of happened. Which may be a theme some will notice in how I write. Anyhow, I'm writing this on three hours of sleep after being up until four in the morning, because I'm totally insane, so . . . well . . . hopefully this is actually readable.

* * *

Stephen wasn't entirely sure how he'd wound up dialling Connor, save that it had seemed a good idea at the time to find someone to talk to, and Nick wasn't available. Really, it would have been stupid to call Nick to bemoan the fact that Helen had seduced him. Even drunk off his arse he knew that was a bad idea. He couldn't call Abby, that would be as stupid as calling Nick, and who was left in Stephen's ever-decreasing circle of friends he wouldn't have to lie about anything to?

It had to be Connor. Sweet, innocent, naive, dependable Connor. He could trust Connor wouldn't be horrible, might be helpful and let Stephen believe he wasn't the vile execrable monster he felt he was at times. So, he called. "Connor!"

"Stephen?" came the northern accent down the line, sounding baffled. "Hi. What do you . . . why . . . what's up?"

"I was just wondering if you wanted to come over," Stephen said. Like always, once committed, he didn't back down. No matter how stupid he sounded, he'd learnt one thing over the years. Sound confident enough and people trusted you to know what you were doing, even if you were pulling things out of your arse. "I've got beer and tequila. I'm sure you can't want to spend all your time around Abby." Something told him his voice wasn't as steady as it ought to be, and that he wasn't speaking as well as he might, but he ruthlessly quashed his Oxford-educated father from his head, not needing that bloody ponce making him feel stupid and inadequate.

The voice was a little suspicious sounding as it asked, "Tequila? Stephen, are you alright?"

Something in that caution made Stephen want to just throw caution to the winds. He was tired of being cautious. Cautious lest he set Nick off, cautious lest he bother Lester, cautious lest he hurt Abby, cautious lest he set Jenny or Leek or anyone else off. Cautious about Helen coming around his flat. "Why wouldn't I be fine? Helen's yanking my chain about, left, right, up, down, and Nick hates me and Abby thinks I'm awful and you're the only person who's not horrible to me on principle."

"I'll be right there," Connor said, something in his voice soothing and urgent and it made something in Stephen relax to know that he was still worth coming to help, even if it was dependable Connor.

A knock at the door a surprisingly short time later, and he was welcoming Connor into his flat. The younger man's face was a study. Stephen found that, in his current state of being completely plastered he couldn't read that face, just knew that it wouldn't judge him and find him wanting, and he sprawled out on his couch, Connor on a chair nearby, looking relaxed, if wary, but beautifully neutral. Wonderfully like he would let Stephen speak and not foist the blame onto him. "It just happened, you know? She lied about everything and I just . . . couldn't . . ."

The bottle was still half full, round and heavy, it rolled nicely in his hands. Something to do with them when he couldn't clean a gun or sharpen a knife. It eased his native restlessness until he was able to focus again.

"At a guess, you're talking about Professor Cutter's wife," Connor said. Stephen looked at him through his lashes, truly impressed at the other's poker face. Maybe Connor was good at cards. It would be fun to play a hand or two with someone as brilliantly unreadable as all this. No, not unreadable, there was clear sympathy there, but neither condemnation nor approval. The tightness in his chest and shoulders relaxed another degree.

But the reminder of the cause of his choice to go on a bender in his own home just made the bitterness and self-hate well up again. "Yes, Helen." He looked at Connor, still expecting disgust. Nothing but open sympathy. "I thought I was in love with her. Hell, I thought she loved me but cared too much about Nick to make a clean break." The words poured out into the waiting ear, and he thought vaguely that it was unfair of him to burden poor, innocent Connor with his own problems. Connor didn't deserve to have another veil of innocence ripped from his eyes, but it felt so good to just say it. Another swallow of the tequila and he finished, "Then she's back with all the coy looks and kissing me in the university and . . ." he trailed off.

She'd teased him. Like the worst sort of cocktease, and made him think it was love. He'd spent that year of the affair practically with blue balls. Oh, there was lots of sex, but in between she'd visit him of a morning, kiss and tease and drive him to distraction, then scarper off with a giggle that it was late and there wasn't time. He was almost Pavlovian in his response to her. The tension driving him slowly mad, the release of it, with her, at her hands, binding him to her because she made sure he couldn't get it anywhere else.

Connor's voice shook him from the painful memories. "Just don't play her games, Stephen. If she left without even caring about either of you, she can't be what you thought she was." He was edging forward, and Stephen didn't quite know why, but he did know that Connor couldn't be right. He couldn't. Except that he was, but he wasn't as right as he could be, because Stephen was the one who'd been weak and pathetic and sad.

"Well, she's not, at that. But then, I'm not such a prize either, am I? Sleeping with the wife of one of the best friends I've ever had." He felt the start of the slow rotation of the room, the sense that maybe he'd had too much finally coming to him, and he turned to lay down before he lost all his dignity and started swaying and making an idiot of himself. He left the one leg on the floor, leaned back against the arm of the sofa and put the other leg up.

He blinked, and Connor was at the end of the sofa, looking earnestly at him, shadows in those normally innocent eyes. A small voice in his head wondered where those shadows were from and if he'd needed to be pissed to see them. "And you fell for her telling you that she was in love with you," Connor pointed out. "You were convinced she was something other than what she was, and it's not the same as setting out to steal Cutter's wife."

It wasn't, but for the problem that he'd known better. Knew better than to do that to Nick and to himself, and he hated the fact that part of him still wanted her in those moments she'd been all soft doe eyes and sweet words. Rather like Connor, actually, if Connor had had a cruel, manipulative bone in his body. "It takes two to tango," he said, instead of saying all this to Connor. Then he took another swallow, because the burn down his throat distracted him from how tight his throat was from suppressed, childish tears.

Connor nodded. "Yes," he said, pointedly. "It does. Helen did as much, if not more, than you did."

Was he just too drunk that he couldn't properly win this argument? But he did have a counter to that, he realised. Because it was the thing that explained it all. He wasn't vile, per se, "Cheers," he felt a mockery of a smile stretch over his lips. "So, I'm not only worthless, I'm stupid too."

The statement seemed to make Connor angry. He looked like he wanted to shake Stephen. "You were a gullible undergrad," he said sharply, so sharply Stephen winced slightly at the rebuke. "A lot of people have been there."

And Stephen wanted to know, suddenly, how Connor knew. Did he know? Did he have friends who'd been used this way? Had it happened to him? A flash in Stephen's mind of a younger Connor, undergraduate, being teased and twisted the way Stephen was and coming out of it the nervous wreck he was now. And then a flash of defensiveness. Because Connor was his. Theirs. The team's. One of them, and once Stephen claimed someone, he didn't unclaim them without a damned good reason.

But that was over in a flash, because he knew he'd made the right call in calling Connor. Because somehow, miraculously, Connor understood. He always understood. He understood Cutter when the man came raving out of the anomaly about Claudia Brown, he understood Abby when she had mad girly days that left Stephen perplexed, he understood Jenny when she tried not to shriek that she was neither action hero, nor Claudia. He always understood and was always there and reliable in a way no one else ever seemed to be. "You know why I called you, Connor?" Stephen asked. "You're just . . . nice. And honest. And I know I can trust you because you're just . . . dependable."

Connor's eyes shuttered for a moment. A flash only, but something dark passed behind them, something that woke a flash of a protective instinct in Stephen. But drunk as he was, his foggy mind couldn't focus and rolled right back to his own sad state of affairs. And now Connor was up and moving, kneeling beside him, bringing his head closer to level with Stephen's, taking the bottle away and with it Stephen's thing to fidget with. A warm hand on his shoulder brought Stephen's focus away from his hands and the inside of his head, then. "Stephen," came that warm, familiar, rough accent. "Listen. I know you're all about honesty, that's why this is hitting you so hard. Helen lied and convinced you to lie, whether by omission or out and out, she did. It's why hiding the anomalies is so tough on you, and I get it's coming to a head."

How did Connor always understand? He was barely listening to the words now, really seeing Connor for the first time. Pale skin, deep brown eyes that could waver from a warm chocolate to dark coffee with a change in mood. A mobile face that could show a hundred emotions, expressing them all in moments, a dimple on one cheek that added a layer of cuteness to Connor's normal cheer, while the jawline and persistent stubble grounded the young man, making him look his age. He said something about Stephen not drinking himself to death, but Stephen could only see those soft-looking lips and wonder if Connor was any good at kissing. "You know what I miss?" he asked.

"What?" Connor asked back.

He didn't bother to answer or explain, just wanting to see if Connor's kisses were like Connor. Simple, unaffected, warm and friendly with a dash of dashing grace and handsomeness.

They were. His teammate barely checked at the kiss, and Stephen groaned into that talented mouth, because Connor did kiss just like he was. And Stephen had to have more, sliding his tongue forward past Connor's lips, slipping his fingers into Connor's hair, and being rewarded with a moan and a tilt of the head a little like a cat being petted. That didn't even last long, though, as Connor leaned the rest of the way, his lips sliding to the corner of Stephen's mouth, down his cheek and to his neck, where small nips, licks and sucking lips felt so brilliant.

A small voice in the back of Stephen's head asked what the hell he was doing, but that was silenced as Connor let himself be pulled onto Stephen on the sofa, a perfectly hard bulge pressing into the one Stephen himself was sporting, and his world narrowed to just how good he could get both of them to feel.

But the sofa was too small, too cramped for what he was imagining, and he sat up, pulling Connor with him to his bed, the younger man just following docilely along, then falling to the bed with him, twining his limbs with Stephen's while they kissed and pressed together. This was perfect, was truly what he'd missed being with Helen. The honest affection of a partner who gave a damn about the other and the feeling that someone wanted Stephen to feel as good as they could make him feel.

That sense was borne out a second later as Connor took control, his hands getting Stephen's shirt off and placing kisses on the skin bared by the action. What sent him into delirium, however, was the moment Connor's hand boldly cupped Stephen's aching cock. Because it felt so good and because there was no teasing there, just the rapid build of sensation, and he cried out, "Connor!"

He'd been letting Connor's shockingly skillful manoeuvring do all the work, but he needed more contact than that one point of warm, gloved hand and his cock. He reached out, dragging the brilliant geek down into a kiss, and heard Connor's groan, and suddenly all that control and skill evaporated in favour of a sort of desperation that Stephen was quite familiar with. But this wasn't Helen, and he clung to the thrusting hips above him, arching his back, pressing himself forward because everything was good and nothing was wrong.

And he still wanted more. This was fantastic. He was sure he'd come any second now, but he wanted to feel Connor's skin against his and found a reserve of will inside himself to pull away, evade the eager, brilliant hands and get to stripping them both of their clothes. For every bit of his own he took off, Connor's hands were there, grasping and caressing and easing over sweat-slick skin. When they were both finally naked, Connor's self-possession returned and he took control again, a hand between them, pressing the two swollen members together, driving them both higher and higher until everything whited out in the rush of orgasm.

He was barely aware in the aftermath that Connor had curled into him, and just knew that he could get used to this, falling asleep with a warm, friendly, comforting body next to him.

The contrast between that and the next morning, which seemed to come far too fast and left him mentally staggering, was incredible. One moment he was warm and content, finally relaxed for the first time in longer than he can remember. The next moment, his head aches fiercely, he's nauseous and achy and everything feels wrong and awful, including the fact that Connor's not next to him, but on a chair, wearing nothing but underclothes, so he's not about to rush off, but he's not _there_, which he'd have preferred.

He'd also have given a lot to be someone who didn't always remember with crystal clarity what he did when pissed. And lord did he remember. He'd unloaded nearly a decade's worth of drama onto Connor's shoulders with never a by-your-leave, then practically mauled the kid . . .

Who'd been brilliant in bed and brilliant before and Stephen, under the pain and nausea and everything else that came with drinking on an empty stomach, felt relaxed and lighter than ever before, and it was all thanks to Connor. "Can I get you some water? That was a hell of a lot of tequila you had last night," Connor offered, looking a little hesitant.

He couldn't think with all the pounding in his head. "Thanks," he managed to get out. "The analgesics are in the left-hand cabinet in the bathroom."

There was a delay as Connor vanished down the corridor, then came back with water and blessed painkillers and after some of that, some food, a bit of time for it all to kick in, he started to feel vaguely human again. But he still felt confused. Because the night before had been amazing, and Stephen was now noticing the way that Connor was lithe and handsome, smart and witty, but he also wondered at the way Connor had been with him, knowing the right thing to say every time and then the way he'd just . . . let himself be with Stephen.

Throughout the day he'd caught Connor glancing at him out of the corner of his eye, an odd sort of wounded look on the former student's face that vanished smoothly behind a mask if he caught someone looking at him.

When he couldn't stand it any longer, Stephen bearded Connor in his lab, because thinking about it all, Connor's words echoing in his head and driving away the spectre of Helen, he knew that there was something there he wanted to explore, wanted to get to know better. "We need to talk."

Connor looked like a deer in the headlamps, frozen and wide-eyed. "Really?" he asked, looking not confused, but panicked. "Why?"

"Does playing therapist and then a night of some of the best sex I've ever had not ring any bells?" he asked Connor dryly. Something in Connor's face showed an internal struggle, and he didn't know why.

And then Connor spoke, and there was fear and doubt and Stephen knew that it was his turn to pay Connor back for his new peace of mind regarding Helen. "It's fine. You needed a friend to talk to, and we both let things go further than we should. It's fine. I mean, it doesn't have to mean anything, we can just . . . let it go. It's fine."

Connor was so skittish that Stephen didn't dare move too much closer, buying some time to figure out what he should be doing by saying, "You do realise you just informed me that it's fine three times just now?" Connor winced at that observation. "Is it that common for you to play therapist, then sex therapist?"

Even as he asked, instinct told him he was right, that it was. That Connor had somehow had reason to develop those skills he'd thought were just talent before. The muttered, "Common enough," told him it was true.

Connor had supported him in every way that night. Had pulled him from his depression and given him the comfort and distraction he'd needed to get out of that spiral. He owed Connor that much, at least, but he wanted more. Because now that he'd seen the depths Connor had, he wanted those depths, to see who was behind the happy grin and bad jokes, and wanted it with an intensity that surprised even himself.

But Connor was retreating inside himself, and Stephen just knew that happy face would crop up again if he didn't say something, stop the defensive walls from coming up. "Connor?" he prompted.

And he bolted to his feet, terrified, shaking with his voice rising with stress and worry. Just . . . it's not important, okay? You needed . . . I just . . . you have what you needed, right? So, we can pretend it didn't happen."

Pretend? No. And once Stephen was set on a course, nothing moved him from it but the most extreme circumstances. He was going to do this, because Connor clearly needed this, and then Stephen was going to find out why. And if he had to find someone to shoot for the shaking terrors Connor was now suffering from, he'd do that, too. "It _is_important, Connor," carefully. He had to go carefully, this was like stalking a deer. You didn't just fling yourself out of the bushes at them. "You made me see Helen more clearly than I ever have and . . . You made me see you as more than just a friend last night, Connor. You're more than just dependable, you're brilliant and sometimes even funny and I want to see where that night can take us."

Had he been careful enough? Connor was shaking his head, refuting Stephen's statement, refusing to believe it. "Just stop!" he nearly shouted, putting the desk between them, frightened of Stephen now. He was close to breaking, but somehow, Stephen knew that Connor needed to break now. Needed to let go of whatever was choking him, the way he'd helped Stephen get rid of the last of Helen's clinging influence. "I can't do it again, Stephen. I can't let myself fall for someone who just needed someone to get them over a rough patch. It hurts when you leave and act like I didn't feel anything."

It said so much now. So much that Connor had never let on, and Stephen knew what he had to do. Knew he had to prove he cared too, that he'd help Connor over his own rough patches, because Connor deserved that for himself. "You said it's common enough, Connor. What does that mean?"

And tears began to slip from Connor's eyes, and Stephen didn't even know when or how he'd circled the desk to first wipe the tears from Connor's eyes, then hold him through the storm and a story of a boy and then young man who didn't know _how_to hold back, didn't know how not to protect his friends, even from themselves. Stephen promised himself as he held Connor close and tried to be the rock the younger man needed, that he'd be there to stand between Connor and the people who didn't even know the advantage they were taking. And when the storm was over and he could feel Connor retreating into himself, trying to rebuild the persona he put on, Stephen kissed him instead, coaxing Connor into eager arousal, bringing him to the point of mindless, beautiful, panting want, then brought him over the edge, promising him that he didn't have to be strong anymore.

Connor docilely let himself be redressed and led to the car, smiling shyly from the passenger seat, and twining his fingers with Stephen's as they walked up the stairs to Stephen's flat. Instead of taking control, Connor let Stephen be the one leading this time, a mischievous smile crossing his face suddenly as he declared he'd just lie back and let someone else do the work for a change.

It was all just as brilliant as the first time, and Stephen woke the next morning to utter certainty that this was the first real thing he'd had for himself in years as soft brown eyes and a dimpled smile greeted him that morning.


End file.
